Tell Her Tonight
by Vcorrigan
Summary: It's cause for celebration, it's a three year anniversary, and Bebe gets the best gift a girl could ask for. Oneshot


**Disclaimer: **I still don't own _South Park_, or lyrics borrowed, or anything really. Made for entertainment purposes, mainly mine, so let's not start a big lawsuit over me.

**Dedication:** This goes out to _Call Me Blue Streak_ who I thought would kill me if I didn't get some sort of Bebe/Stan-ness up. Don't worry, I'm working on the challenge, I just don't want to actually start it until my Expo '86 duties are over.

**A/N:** I went crazy one night and found myself listening to "Tell Her Tonight" by Franz Ferdinand. The next thing I knew was I was dreaming this up, and hogod, it was weird. So I got up, scrambled to write it, and lost a few hours of sleep in the process. Reading over it I realized how much Stan takes my point on things, which is creepy, but oh well. So enjoy the heterosexiness.

* * *

Winter nights, evening walks  
Romance begins at the tick of dusk  
Angel's breath, misty air  
Hazardous dares as the sun falls down  
On the breeze, gentle kiss  
Shooting stars as witnesses please  
Pleasure mounts, rose for lips  
Eyes play puzzles like a caress  
One phrase, lost in time  
On anniversary, baby, you're mine

Sighing with frustration I ruffled my hair, chewing on the tip of my beloved, twenty-five cent blue _Bic_ ink pen. Flooding my desk were crumpled sheets of pink coloured stationary, a gift my _totally awesome_ sister, Shelly, bought me for my birthday. Great gift for your sixteenth, huh? But my cheap sister (that I swear just reached under her bed and called the first thing she grabbed a gift) is beside the point, the poems are what are important. I have an anniversary tonight with my girlfriend, and tradition is we trade poems. I have five hours until I meet up with her at seven and I've yet to produce a satisfactory poem, out of, say, forty-nine of the ones I've already attempted. Rereading what I've scrawled in my crappy, spidery, thin male-writing it's decided this one will have to do.

I guess I should mention who my girlfriend is, huh? Well, it's Bebe Stevens. I know, I know, there's rules against going out with your ex's best friend. You have no idea how much I was hounded when the guys at school found out I was going out with Bebe. But let me explain before you stalk me down and beat my head in with a pipe. Please?

I'll admit completely I'm still in love with Wendy. I mean, totally, butter-fly inducing, vomit-producing _in love_. Everyone knows it; my parents, my friends, Wendy, Bebe, my flaming dog, even Jesus. You never really get over your first crush, or first love, you always remain hung. Even fifty years down the road, you'll pull out your old yearbook and point out to your grandchildren the totally fine boy/girl you were hung on. And they will tell you "you have bad taste grandma/pa!". And then you'll get a bunch of cats for companionship and live your life being an emo-old person because your significant other died of a stroke and you're stuck in a rundown home while the local kids call you the creepy old person from Hell.

Wait, what was I talking about? Wendy, right.

So we got back together the summer after forth grade, thinking that we'd already lived half our lives and no one else would ever love us. I got over Wendy being a douchewhore that went out with Token, and we went on about being a happy couple. We were like horny teenagers, except we were only nine, and _real_ kissing was still illegal to us. So we cuddled, held hands, took strolls around Stark's Pond, gave each other stuff for Valentine's, and just did couple-y things. Until about halfway through seventh grade when the fire just burned out and there was no passion, lust behind our kisses and touches.

It was just unanimously over. We still loved each other, but we weren't exactly happily, humpingly, hornily _in love_. I was still in love with her, but not "I want to ravage you with my tongue" in love. Or "let's get busy in the snow" in love. It was more "I respect you, admire you, get fuzzy inside when you're around, and want to touch your boobs" in love. But we agreed that we were stupid to only get together because we thought their was no one else, and just ended it there. Wait, no, we ended it after she admitted she'd be eyeing Gregory as of late.

Gregory of Yardale. American-Canadian war Gregory. Complete assmonkey Gregory. But that was cool, 'cause he sure as Hell wasn't, unless you were like, a Thespian or something. He was the kid you saw with his nose stuffed into eight-hundred page books, plays, philosophy writings, while managing to keep his own. He lead the junior debate team through many'a competition without failure, was top in our class, became president of NHS, and was quite active in the drama department. He used more gel in his hair than proper for males, and made sure to keep his fucking accent mocking. Everyone envied him at one time or another for various reasons; the boys at school usually did because he had Wendy, captain of the volleyball team and infamous cheerleader. Did I mention them both take dance lessons together? Gay.

But now onto me. As Wendy moved on and snogged Gregory shamelessly, I moved on as well. At first I tried hitting it off with Esther, this really artistic, crazy girl. I mean, she's fucking nuts. She's all over the place, doodling on anything she can get her hands on. It's like a drug for her, she gets off when she gets new packs of Prisma pencils, because she goes through them like a woman on her period using tampons. Haha, that's gross. But really, Esther was _wired_. I couldn't take her.

Then my hormones did a little tap dance and spun the bottle, revealing the newest target of my affection; Kyle.

I know, I know, he's my best friend and that totally doesn't work, right? Well, if you had a choice of banging someone you hardly knew, or someone you trusted with every ounce of fat in you, who would you pick? And it wasn't like I said, "Oh my dear Lord Broflovski is my new buttbuddy!" No, my dick was more like, "Hey, HEY STAN! See that cute redhead over there strutting around in that _All-American Rejects_ shirt? No, not Sally you fucking prat! _Kyle_! Yeah, see him? I want that. I WANT IT OR I'LL GET HARD AND EMBARRASS YOU! Now, go get 'em, tiger!"

Kyle was much cooler than Gregory, too, and I'm not just saying that because he's my best friend and everything. But fucking-A, he was (and still is) the captain of the lacrosse team. _No one_ fucks with Kyle Broflovski and comes back without a tooth missing. Even that wasn't the extent of Kyle's badassness. He played lead guitar in some band he was feebly attempting to get together, had the sweetest sense in music and style, managed to keep his grades up, and obsessed over lava lamps. He grew like a weed in junior high, managing an inch above me, and his kinky ringlets fell out, becoming soft fluffy curls that he let get long enough to be shaggy but not disgusting. And the colour, good God! It changed from flaming-red to a deep, rusty scarlet with natural copper and gold highlights. It was a complete contrast to his grey-blue eyes, now placed behind gawky copper-framed glasses with yellow-tinted lens. Speaking of which, for sports he wears contacts that make his eyes aqua. Ohhh, cold chills.

But back to the main point here; I was knee-deep in shit as my hormones went wacky and told me to get together with Kyle. Luckily he didn't have a girlfriend, believing that a relationship would just drag him down, and that his anger-management problem (caused by years of ridicule aka Cartman, which was precisely why he enrolled in the meanest sport ever) would cause domestic abuse problems.

So me, being good ol' boy Stan came out to him in a wonderful display of sputtering senselessly. He took it fairly well, if you consider him shouting about rape and his virgin ass before running off was well. We ignored each other for a total of two days and then when I was all depressed about ruining the best friendship of my life he knocked on the door with a peace offering of a scented pinetree to hang in a car and chocolate-chip-oatmeal-raisin-walnut-sugar cookies, a recipe we had come up with in sixth grade when completely bored and without enough ingredients to make just one batch of normal cookies. He came in, we played _Halo_ while stuffing cookies in our faces, and talked. We agreed that it was perfectly normal to have the hots for your best friend and nothing would come between us. Nothing ever did, because Kyle being the curious, awesome guy he was gave it a fling himself. It only became a problem when we were caught snogging by Craig. So we dropped out of being good pals for about a year, but now, we're tight. He's got an awesome girl, and so do I.

Speaking of which, it was during that year that I wasn't on speaking terms with Kyle that I got hooked on Bebe. I had dropped my pencil and she bent over to pick it up, but the top button of her polo shirt popped undone and I got one helluva cleavage shot. The power of bewbs held me captive as she threw my pencil at my face, but in my mind, she smiled seductively, licked the pencil, and slowly inserted it between her chesticles.

It was a fine day in the world of Stanley Marsh.

For a week, every chance I got I dropped my pencil. After the third day of this occurring she gave me a quizzical look and handed me a note with the writing utensil. The cursive read, "Why do you keep dropping your pencil?" Me, being the genius I am (and not having Kyle around to tell me what to write) replied with, "I like seeing how you work the pencil with your fingers." To say the least, I got bitch-slapped like you aren't believing; getting hit with Kyle's lacrosse stick was better punishment then that.

I let her anger die down some as I tried to come up with a plan of apology. Finally Kenny just grabbed my hands and drug me to her before waltzing off like he did God's deed. And maybe he did. I stuttered that I didn't mean what I said and that it was just because I was male that I even said it and that I sort really liked her, though I didn't add that I liked her boobs too. She just rolled her eyes like it was yesterday's news and said she knew, males were so predictable and thought with their dicks too much. And then she laid out the rules that I was Wendy's ex and untouchable, even if she sort of kind of liked me back.

So I went to Miss Wendy Testicles myself and implored to her permission to go out with Bebe. Of course it wasn't just her and I, oh no, Gregory was always with her, like that special bracelet you feel naked without. He found it fucking hilarious I was asking her, begging almost. Of course he was relieved from his duties when she asked sweetly for him to go get her a drink; at least she still has some sort of compassion left. So he left, she laughed, and said of course I could go out with Bebe, it wasn't her decision otherwise. Being extremely thankful I gave her a quick kiss, and commenced running from an enraged Gregory.

As any of you could guess, I frolicked to Bebe, lovestruck and happy as a puppy eating cat shit. She wasn't so sure of the permission granted and turned me away, still unsure of going out with her best friend's ex. Holycrap, I wanted to slap her, because _I_ got permission and that wasn't good enough. I ignored her for three whole days, but it was sheer torture, especially the days she knocked her pencil off her desk and leaned down, flashing me purposely. She knew how to work her body, batting her eyes lazily, dreamily; sweeping her hair back from her face and shaking it out. She totally ensnared me, and I whimpered back to her. Of course she went to Wendy as well and got the same answer I had, and from then on out we were one helluva team. Still are.

It's about that time my cellphone blared out the chorus of 'Bleeding Hearts Baby' by _Head Automatica_. To tell you the truth, I don't like them, the lead vocalist, Daryl Palumbo, sounds a lot better in his band, _Glass Jaw_. Hearing him singing about all this fluffy goodness compared to his other work makes a piece of my soul die inside. But Bebe likes them because she's a girl, and they definitely appeal to the feminist of the generation.

Of course, me being technically handicapped, Bebe has the ringtone 'Michael' which was supposed to be set for Kyle, and my redhead got stuck with Bebe's.

As soon as I flip open the gadget Kyle's cocky voice erupts from the other end. "Stan my man! Took you a while, you sonuvabitch, better not be getting' some behind my back, you'll break my poor, fragile little heart."

I smirk and shake my head, knowing he can't see it but will know the action has been committed. As I said before, after I got together with Bebe, Kyle decided we should put the past behind us and hang out. We still crack jokes about that phase in our lives when we were totally into each other, but I have Bebe and he has a non-gothed out Henrietta.

I bet you're wondering how that happened, huh? Well long story short, after that transitional state of summer between eighth grade and ninth, she just came to school looking…normal. It was amazing. Her hair wasn't long and black-blue anymore, she'd cut it and styled, dying it back to the original colour of strawberry-blonde. And her outfits had a lot less black, although she held an attitude and still owned band-shirts. But she was a lot different, breaking free of stereotypes and letting out the true Henrietta; which included loving sushi, philosophy, pottery, photography, and beating the Hell out of someone in a game of lacrosse. To go along with it, she admitted she was a hundred-percent Scottish and stopped hiding her accent. To say the least, Kyle was smitten.

"Broflovski, don't be such a dickface. Why're you calling?"

"Just reminding you that you have an anniversary in, oh, three hours."

I look down at my watch and gape and seeing the time blare four in bold green numbers. When did two hours? Glancing at a piece of paper with a highly detailed picture of Bebe's boobs I know.

"Shit! I've still got to go get her a gift. Fucking damnit."

"You haven't gotten her anything _yet_? Christ, Marsh, you're a sucky boyfriend, I mean I experienced first hand but _jeez_. What're you going to get her anyway?"

"I dunno, thinking a teddy bear and some roses," I say as I rush to the closet and sort through outfits. Over the receiver I hear a crude snort, a habit Kyle quickly grew into.

"Isn't that what you always get her? Be more original or she'll get bored! I mean, fuck man, it's your three year! Make it special you douche."

Irritably I sigh, he's got a point. "Well what am I supposed to get her? Girls take things differently then guys. Clothing says she's got a bad taste in style, perfume says she smells bad, and lingerie says she wears undesirable underwear and it should be spiced up. I don't know, dude."

"Her undies don't need to be spiced up, do they?"

"They're quite risque as it is, they really don't."

"Huh, good to know. Hm…what about a dildo? You could crochet a hat like the one you wear and name it Stan, so on lonely nights she can—"

"Shut up dude!" I say in disgust into the phone and reach up, touching the hat in question. It's the one I wore back in elementary, except it's rather worn, and has a rainbow of patches over it. But it still wears great.

"Okay, seriously, you just need to make it special. You don't have to spend everything in your savings for tacky jewelry or any crap like that, but you have to spawn away from the usual things that most guys get their girlfriends. I mean, look around campus, Stan, most of the hotshot football players just compete wit each other by buying the biggest bear available and getting the ugliest jewelry. There's no real thought behind it."

"What'd you get Henrietta last month?"

Knowing Kyle, he was smiling proudly at whatever achievement he'd come up with. "Recording of my lacrosse game she missed, sung her a song, got a single white rose and dipped it in liquid nitrogen, and made her a shirt that says 'buttmonkies, defined as South Park High's entire campus…especially footballers.'"

I laugh into the receiver, shaking my head. No one really knows what spawned Kyle's intense loathing of football, but he always sticks with the reason that football defines a highschool and he hates that. Especially when the football team sucks because one particular fatass got his mom to fuck the coach and get him in, _after_ holding the coach's golfcart hostage. I actually agree whole-heartedly with his reasoning, which was one of the reasons I switched out to baseball. And of course the coach never really liked me after turning down his daughter, Jordan, for the homecoming dance in ninth grade. I mean, Hell, he put Craig as the quarterback, even though when he knows it spins out of control and usually hits some unwilling spectator in the eye. But fuck them.

Reliving of giggles I sigh and say, "Alright Kyle, I think I've got an idea. Better go get ready, talk to you later."

"Later, love you Darshy-Marshy."

I flip the phone down and shake my head, smiling. Some things never change.

---

I hate daylights saving time, it can fuck itself in the ass. Really, what's the point of it? People in the Asyrian age never rolled back their dial-watches, why should we? It screws with your head. It happens, and you're used to waking up at six, so your body tells you to get up and it's really only five and then you can't sleep because you're already up. And it gets dark way too early so you end up going to bed at eight, and then when the week is over you sleep on Friday and get up at two because you've slept too much in five days.

I really, _really_ can't stress enough how much I hate it.

My distress only climaxes further walking down the street, lined in slush and ice, the air frigid but not cold enough to wear something heavy and the street lights flicker like dust, or rather with old crappy bulbs that most likely need to be replaced. I have fifteen minutes until I need to be at the rendezvous point, the South Park National Park. Who knew? Not me, and obviously that big area between the Rocky's and town, where Stark's Pond is located, is actually a huge wildlife reserve. Well Hell, huh? Bu we aren't going to the Pond, no, too many other couples hang out there, making kissy faces and feeling each other up, we're going into this part of the forest where a stone bridge crosses the Terryall Creek. That's our crashpad, and as far as I know the only other people that hang out there are Craig's gang, but they usual reek havoc on the town at night TPing and going to parties they shouldn't.

I look down at my watch, seeing that five minutes have already passed. If Dad hadn't been a jerk I would totally have the car, _my_ car, a beautiful Poniac. I had a boner for that car since sixth grade, and when I got it…you can imagine the orgasm I had. But no, Dad insisted that driving on an anniversary was a no-no…what the fuck?

Deciding that getting there late would make me look like a sorry boyfriend, I zip up my baseball jacket and hightail it down the sidewalk, glad that I put on normal super-grip tennis shoes. The breeze doesn't slow me, instead it whips back my messy hair, and I can only be sure I'm not going to be the most attractive thing in the world when I meet up with Bebe. Maybe I shouldn't have called Kyle back, fretting over what to wear, and asking if my gift was alright. Maybe.

Running down the street, cutting through lawns and parking lots to the more country-like part of town, I sigh, my breath fogging. It's amazing how much South Park has grown up over a few short years. I mean, who the fuck would want to move here? It's cold, weird shit happens, and…well, the weather leaves it perpetually cold. Except for a month. Always snow, everywhere, you'd go crazy with the lack of colour. And trust me, all of us real South Parkians are fucking nuts.

About that time I cross over onto the frozen, slushy ground and run blindly like Hell across the clearing and into the trees, knowing exactly where I'm going. By then my lungs hurt from taking in so much cold air, my throat sore, mouth tasting like blood. That's something else that would make a person crazy, tasting blood all the time, even though you're usually never bleeding unless you get punched in the face.

I stop short of the bridge, keeled over, hands holding my weight up on my knees, and breath deeply even though it's painful. I stand after a few seconds and smile brightly as Bebe flicks her eyes from the swirling waters of the creek to me and raises a hand, her class ring glittering in the dark.

She's fantastic. Really, personality and everything. Her hair is a bit shorter than it was in elementary school, and like Kyle's, her ringlets loosened to soft curls. And as well, the colour is more honey blonde than clover, and ha delicate light brown streaks in it, natural of course, though the bottom tips still sport the faded red dye from a rather bizarre time in our relationship. I'm not even going to explain _that_.

"Hiya Stanley, I was wondering when you'd get here," she says in her mock-Wendy voice, so much alike it's scary, especially on the phone. I shudder unwillingly as she gives me that coy, mysterious smile, eyelids drifting half-closed to show off the silvery makeup she's fond of wearing.

"Don't do that," I say, stepping up the bridge's slope slowly. She gives me a look from under her long bangs, almost pouting, but I see the devilish twinkle in her shimmering amber eyes.

"Or what, Mr. Hot-Shot?"

"Or this," I let out before swooping down, arms encircling her petite waist and lifting. She lets out a squeal of surprised as I swing her around in circles under the moonlight, wavy hair getting the same treatment mine did running here. Her hands found my neck as she giggled up a storm, tugging a bit on my hair but I didn't care seeing that happy-go-lucky look on her face.

"Stan, Stan put me down!" she says loudly between bouts of laughter. I slow the spins to a halt and set her on the edge, holding her waist to keep her from falling backwards. She shakes her head, and pushes me away, with a hand, jumping from the place on the wall, landing gracefully on her feet despite the massive spins we just did; I guess ballet is good for something. I step away as she stalks toward me, bumping up against the opposite wall, trapped. She smiles lazily and tosses her hair back from her face, catching the curls in the wind to blow around her face. It stops my breath for a second and she notices.

She licks her lips, putting her hands on either side of me on the wall. "So Stan, can you believe we've been together for three years?"

"Yeah I can, Bebe, and I've even got the proof." It was a dumb line to launch into gifts with, but I had nothing better then that. So I put my hands on her shoulders, urging her a step back and reached into my massive pocket of goodies, dragging out a CD case, sheet of stationary, and my old, gross hat.

She gives me an amused look as I put the hat on her head an hand her the poem. She reads it under her breath, eyes sparking at the words until the last line, where she burst into a new fit of laughter. Really, what was so funny? I thought it was pretty good. She wipes her eyes and kissed my cheek, lingering a bit more than a friendly kiss.

"'On our anniversary, baby, you're mine'? Doesn't that just take the poetry right out of it, hun."

"Well it's true so I don't see—"

The look she wears stops me mid sentence. It's so trusting, loving. "Stan, I'm just yanking your chain, I love it, and as soon as I get home it's going up on my Stan wall." She slides her cold hands over mine, gently snagging the CD case from them and looks over the scribbled playlist written inside. Her smile widens and she flips her hair from her face as she looks up at me. "I can't believe it, you've compiled all of our songs over the years, Stan…oh my God, 'You Spin Me Round', I haven't listened to that in ages!"

"_All I know is that to me, you look like you're lots of fun, open up your loving arms, watch out here a come—_"

"_You spin me right round, baby right round, like a record baby, right round, round round_," she finished with a giggle as my hand slid from her cheek to her neck, caressing. She cooed, melting into my body and looked up under those eyes. I couldn't help but lean down and brush her candy-flavoured lips, breath hot mingling with hers.

"So do I get a poem?" I ask lightly and she pulls away with an apologetic look in her face. Did I mention, along with the trading poems tradition, I'm the only one that does? I mean, I know she writes the poems, she always shares them with Henrietta for interesting little comments and pointers , but never with me. Every year I wonder what would happen if I had her share first, but can never put myself to do it, knowing Bebe wouldn't back out of the tradition unless it was for some serious reason. But I can't understand what's in the poems that she isn't willing to share, after I share mine.

"I'm sorry, baby, but I didn't forget." She pulls out a picture book from her coat, something I've been nagging her about getting to me for memories' sake, and a shiny diary-like notebook. I look it over quizzically, wondering why the Hell I was just given a girly-notebook. When I look up she's got that smitten look again.

"Don't read it now, it's full of thoughts about you and us."

I stick the two in my jacket pocket and kiss her again, more passionately this time, but my hands linger on her left, pulling a bit, though I bet she didn't notice. I pull away after a moment look down at our hands. Seeing the action she does the same and cocks her head, noticing that her left ringfinger is now joined with my right by a white ribbon, resembling the virginity ribbons tied around the ankles that were a big craze at the end of eighth grade.

"Honey, what's this?"

"It signifies how we're together, how we're meant to be this way. We're one, Bebe, and I want you to know no one else makes me whole," I say slowly, raising my eyes from our hands to her orbs. Her brows furrow in what I guess is confusion.

"What are you saying, Stan?"

I take a breath and steady myself. I've been debating with myself for a while when to say this, really spent nights surfing over the outcome and path this could lead to. I look at Bebe intensely, the sparkling eyes, wet lips, silver makeup, windblown hair and flushed cheeks from the cold. I _really_ look at her, seeing the devotion she's placed in the relationship, the humour she's kept during otherwise serious times, and how she's always been by my side through everything I've been through. And yet I've been such a bastard, not given her what any girl wants, and I don't mean diamonds.

"Bebe, I love you." I said it. And it feels good. Three years we've tramped around saying it, because as I've said, _everyone_ knows I love Wendy, and Bebe wasn't going to push it. She's been nicer than anyone, letting me find my way through all of my emotional turmoil, and kept herself from saying the three words herself, in fear of seeming too nagging. It clicks as I see her eyes widen and tears spill down her cheeks _that's_ why she never gave me her poems, because they including those words.

She takes a step back, her free hand going to her mouth in shock. I feel horrible for making her like this and take that step forward. Stunning me she throws her arms around my neck, and o course with one hand tied to mine I get smacked by myself involuntarily. She sniffs back tears, hugging me with one arm and buries her face in my collar. I sit there for a few moments without moving, thinking this is it, we're over, before she pulls back and kisses my cheek feverishly.

"Stan, this is the best gift _ever_."


End file.
